


afterall

by hihoplastic



Series: DW Tumblr Prompts/Reposts [22]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-05
Updated: 2018-01-05
Packaged: 2019-02-28 21:14:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13280004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hihoplastic/pseuds/hihoplastic
Summary: She guides him down the hall, away from the doorway, a hand at his back as she speaks softly, “She was crying up a storm after you left, until Momma picked her up.  Then quiet as a mouse.” She looks momentarily chagrined at the comparison—catkind humor, he supposes—but waves it off. “The duty nurse suggested moving someplace quieter; your wife was adamant we wait until you returned, but, well, she was making quite the ruckus, your little one.”





	afterall

**Author's Note:**

> \- for anon, who requested "river/12 + exhausted parents kiss"  
> \- title from william fitszimmons' "after afterall"

Her chair is empty.

His hearts slam into his chest and stop, the constant sounds and lights disappearing in a rush and the ground under his feet rushes forward.

_Not again,_  he thinks, _please, not again, not again, not again—_

“Doctor.”

A soft hand curls over his elbow.

“Where—”

It’s all he manages, throat and mouth dry and voice cracked and the nurse smiles up at him,  _why is she smiling, how dare she smile when—_

“They’re fine, Doctor,” she says. “This way.”

She guides him down the hall, away from the doorway, a hand at his back as she speaks softly, “She was crying up a storm after you left, until Momma picked her up.  Then quiet as a mouse.” She looks momentarily chagrined at the comparison—catkind humor, he supposes—but waves it off. “The duty nurse suggested moving someplace quieter; your wife was adamant we wait until you returned, but, well, she was making quite the ruckus, your little one.”

Her voice is too cheery, her smile too wide and he quickens his pace despite not knowing where they’re going. The nurse—he knows her name, can’t remember it over the thudding in his ears—matches him easily, steering him around a corner.

She’s still talking, but he can’t understand a word, not until she opens a door and ushers him into a small, dimly lit room. He finds River immediately, leaning back in an oversized chair, eyes closed.

She’s still pale with worry, her hair haphazard and lifeless, but there’s a slant of sunshine on her cheek and she’s humming softly, an old Earth lullaby.

The world comes back into focus the moment she opens her eyes and smiles tiredly.

“Hey,” she murmurs, not up to her usual greeting but he doesn’t care. It’s enough, and the air leaves his lungs in a whoosh.

“Scared the living sh—”

“Oh, Doctor, not in front of the babe,” the nurse scolds, breezing by him to check on River.  He stands motionless in the middle of the room while she settles a blanket over River’s legs and says a few words to the nurse in the corner, sitting quietly, obviously there should something go wrong.

His chest tightens and he has to physically shake off the memories, too raw, too close to the surface, River’s white, white face and a flatline and blood; his daughter’s white, white face and too small and machines and River’s machines and he doesn’t hear the nurse leave or River’s voice, just his own screaming and everyone’s yelling and white, white walls and blood and—

_“Sweetie.”_

He startles, finds River staring at him, hand outstretched.

“Come here,” she says, softer, and he doesn’t remember moving but he’s on his knees, hand tight in hers, eyes frantically searching her face. She smiles again, reassuring. “We’re okay.”

He nods, unable to pull his eyes away, his fingers, soft over the pulse point in her wrist. The beats are calm and steady and he evens his breathing to the thrum. It’s only after he’s sure she really is fine, sure she’s real and whole and alive that he looks down at the too small bundle against her chest.

She’s tucked under River’s shirt, tiny cheek pressed to River’s skin, tiny mouth open, tiny hat askew.

“How is she?”

“Same as she was an hour ago, sweetie. You were supposed to get some sleep.”

He shrugs, gently, so gently, laying a hand over his daughter’s back to feel the rise and fall of her tiny chest. “Didn’t work.”

“Clearly,” River says, but it’s without bite. They’re both too exhausted; neither sleep well without the other but both are unwilling to leave their little girl alone, not for a second. They’re the NICU’s most troublesome parents by far, he’s sure, with the TARDIS parked in a broom closet down the hall and their total disregard for hours and protocol.

They follow the nurses’ schedule, listen to their advice, do what they’re told when it comes to the baby’s health but they’re both protective and overbearing and demanding and difficult. He knows he’d made their lives hell the week River was in and out of consciousness. The week he thought he’d lose her, lose both of them. The week he’d refused to do anything but sit by her bedside and hold her hand and wait and anyone who tried to convince him otherwise found out exactly why he terrifies so many.

And then she woke up, and she got better, and the entire hospital found out he wasn’t the frightening one at all.

He quirks his lips at the thought—River, barely able to stand, in nothing but a thin hospital gown, wires in her arms and a look on her face that made three orderlies cry and security back out of the room.

And then he thinks of all those wires, of her shaking legs, white, white face and tears and the flatline—

He inhales sharply and pulls away. He doesn’t want to wake the little girl, doesn’t want to disturb either of them, but he barely makes it off the floor when River catches his wrist.

“Sit with me.”

There’s more than enough room, but even still, she melds her body into his, both of them at an angle in the large chair so she can lean part of her back to his chest, so he can rest his chin on her shoulder.

“Any ideas yet?”

River shakes her head, curls brushing his cheek.

“Nothing feels right.”

She doesn’t say it, but he hears the  _yet_  on the end, the fear that’s blanketed them for months caught in her throat.

“We’ll think of something,” he says, because he thinks he should—it sounds nice, if a bit hollow, and River sinks into him further, turning her head to press her face into his chest.

He curls his fingers over her hip and wishes he had something to say. Wishes he could be better at this. Wishes he could stop screaming himself hoarse whenever he’s alone.

“Stop it,” she murmurs, and he stills.

“Stop what?”

“I can hear your self-loathing.”

“I wasn’t even talking.”

“It’s audible.”

His lips quirk, and he runs a hand up and down her side, but says nothing.

River sighs. “This isn’t your fault.”

“It isn’t yours either.”

She doesn’t answer, and he thinks about her rage, the moment it hard turned to grief so quickly, so completely. Her face contorted and body shaking so hard she couldn’t stand, so hard she fell, and he caught her, and she was crying but it wasn’t beautiful, it wasn’t her single, damaged tear it was everything, ugly, terrifying the way she hadn’t been able to breathe, her fists clenched around the fabric of his shirt and her face buried in his chest, hot tears and sweat and snot and she kept saying  _our baby,_  and  _please_ , and then, finally,  _I’m sorry_  and he’d snapped, pulled her away and framed her face in his hands and said,  _don’t you dare._

His voice had cracked so he’d said it again, _don’t you dare blame yourself_  and he could tell by the way her face twisted she’d been about to say _then who?_  so he’d kissed her, and kept kissing her until she stopped shaking and kept kissing her until it wasn’t enough and he’d needed her everywhere.

It had been desperate and messy and they’d faltered almost as soon as they started, exhausted and drained and half naked on the TARDIS floor.

They’d sat there for hours, his back against the wall, her curled against his chest, both of them drifting in and out of restless sleep.

He hadn’t known what to say then and he doesn’t know what to say now, so he kisses the top of her head and sighs.

“Betty.”

River snorts. “Over your dead body.”

“I had a turtle named Betty.”

“It was a toad, and its name was Benny, and we’re not naming our daughter after either.”

“How do you know about Betty?”

“Benny,” she corrects, “and I know everything.”

He almost smiles. “I suppose you do.”

She looks up at him, and he looks down at her and her face softens, lines smoothing out. He tucks a strand of hair behind her ear.

She kisses him, sweet and slow, and he feels his shoulders relax for the first time in weeks. Feels like he can almost breathe. She’s warm against him, the double beat of her hearts strong and steady. Their little girl nestled on her chest, breathing slow and steady.

River slowly parts, her head lolling against his shoulder and he presses his lips to her forehead.

“Get some sleep, dear.”

She mumbles something he doesn’t catch, but her eyes droop closed and her breathing evens out almost instantly. She’ll have a terrible neck ache later, he knows, and she’ll be cross about it and he’ll pay for it but right now he doesn’t care, doesn’t care about anything except curling his arm alongside River’s to support their tiny girl. He cares about the little hat she wears, about the up and down, up and down of her breathing, of River’s breathing. He cares about the quiet, the soft hum of machines and far away sounds, the warm band of sunlight on his face.

He doesn’t hear the nurse move, but someone tucks another blanket around them and closes the blinds so it’s dark. He tries to thank her but it’s more a gruff mumble, his head turned, mouth in River’s hair.


End file.
